Abroad

My husband was 58 when he had his first angina attack. He was determined to prove that nothing was wrong and the medical treatment that he was receiving was not necessary. I was fighting a battle on the home front, with my husband and/or his alter ego being enemy number one.

The problem was to persuade him to slow down after 40 years of constant high pressure activity, either in employment or running his own business. Many times he would have breakfast in London, hovercraft to France for a business lunch and then return to Lowestoft for dinner with me.

In October 1993, we arrived in Spain with a party of 40 people. My husband was walking a few yards to the local tourist information office when he felt as if somebody had given him a strong kick in the chest. This caused massive pain and great difficulty in breathing. He struggled to return to the hotel and telephoned his GP in Oulton Broad. He was advised that he should go to the nearest hospital.

In spite of my limited Spanish, the experience in the hospital was an ordeal, as was the remaining six days that we had to spend in Spain. Like a record stuck in a groove, I had to repeatedly assure my husband that the other driver and the male passengers would load and unload the entire luggage.